


G.I.N.A.S.F.S.

by Rantaboutbees



Category: Fall Out Boy
Genre: Blood, Breakups, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Songfic, all the sadness, bad things, trigger warning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-27
Updated: 2016-07-27
Packaged: 2018-07-26 05:40:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,494
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7562500
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rantaboutbees/pseuds/Rantaboutbees
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He needed to feel him again. To kiss him, to hold him.</p><p>To almost love him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	G.I.N.A.S.F.S.

**Author's Note:**

> I don't really know what this is? I didn't know what I was doing half the time I was writing it. It ended in a way that I wasn't expecting.
> 
> Also, trigger warning.

The sound of his head hitting the backboard of the bed.

  
He hated that sound.

  
  
He heard it every morning, every morning as he jerked awake from another nightmare. Another nightmare that wasn't all that made up.

  
  
Pete's crestfallen face. The brown, teary eyes. The thick black hair in front of him as Pete hung his head in disappointment. His own angry words. The argument. The yelling. All that god awful yelling. It rang incessantly through his head every morning. Every lonely morning. And the slamming of the door.

  
  
And the silence.

  
  
Patrick opened his eyes. His head hurt.

  
  
He dragged himself out of that empty bed and stood quietly on the floor.

  
  
He wasn't going to cry today.

  
  
He had promised himself that.

  
  
Today was going to be the day that he didn't cry, that he didn't sob or scream or clutch the phone to his tear-covered face as he sat curled up in the corner of the bathroom, listening to the ring and hanging up before anyone could answer.

  
  
That wasn't going to happen today.

  
  
Patrick looked down at himself, feet planted on the carpet. He was wearing boxers and an old black Metallica shirt that didn't smell like him. It smelled like someone else. It smelled like someone else.

  
  
Two months ago, it wouldn't have fit him. But everything about him was deteriorating as the distance between them was growing, and a week ago he had opened the closet on the other side of the room.

  
  
It had been full of ratty old t-shirts and skinny jeans and jackets and boots and things that all smelled like Pete. Now it only had a few shirts and a pair of boots that Patrick couldn't bring himself to throw out the window along with all his other stuff. Patrick slept in those shirts now. They smelled like Pete. And if he closed his eyes and thought hard enough, Patrick could sometimes imagine that Pete was there with him again.

  
  
Patrick looked at the doorway of the bedroom, where two black boots leaned against the frame. He forced his legs across the floor, staring down at the shoes. Without thinking about what he was doing, he pulled them on. He stood for a moment with Pete's shoes on his feet, then made his way slowly in the direction of the kitchen.

  
  
He stopped halfway across the hall, felt his legs sway, and slumped against the wall. He slid slowly down until he was crouched on the floor, hugging the white paint. Images flashed harshly through his head.

  
  
Pete sitting on the ground, leaning against the wall. Arms wrapped around his legs.

  
  
Smiling up at him. Patrick sitting down and kissing him and asking him what he's so happy about. Them talking and laughing.

  
  
Frowning up at him. Patrick sitting down and kissing him and asking him what's wrong. Them talking and hugging.

  
  
Looking down. Patrick sitting with him and holding him close and not saying a word. Taking solace in each other's company. Pete resting his head on Patrick's shoulder.

  
  
Them just laying down in this hallway, holding the other in their arms and staring up at the ceiling.

  
  
When they were on the roof. Staring up at the stars. Discussing spending the rest of their lives together.

  
  
When their lips collided and every time felt like the first. When they both knew this was meant to be. They were soulmates.

  
  
True blue.

  
  
Too much.

  
  
Patrick could feel a lump rising in his throat as he leaned his face against the wall, trying to remember what Pete felt like. Trying to remember what his kisses tasted like. Patrick pressed his lips against the wall, tracing the shadows of his memories with his finger.

  
  
He needed to feel him again. To kiss him, to hold him.

  
  
To almost love him.

  
  
"I'm supposed to love you," He whispered into the wall. "I'm supposed to love you." He heard a sob escape from his throat. 

 

But he wasn't going to cry. He wasn't going to cry. Not today. Not today.

  
  
He stood up on shaky legs, pressing a hand against the wall for support. He remembered Pete doing this, leaning on Patrick with his other arm. When Patrick had found him on the roof, arms scarred and bloody and a red painted bottle of pills in his hands. When Patrick carried him down the steps into their apartment. When Pete put a hand on this blank white wall, smearing his blood across it on the way to the bedroom. When Patrick took him into the adjoining bathroom and cleaned his arms and put away the pills and bandaged him and kissed him and held him closer than he ever had before that night, laying beside him in bed and matching his shaky sobs. When Patrick cleaned the blood off the wall the next morning, before Pete woke up. When Pete woke up and Patrick sat with him all day and talked about everything and nothing.

  
  
Patrick collapsed back on the floor. He swallowed back a cry of agony and forced away his tears. He wasn't going to do this today. He put his hands back on the wall and pulled himself up, dragging himself to the kitchen.

  
  
He was going to eat today.

  
  
He hadn't eaten in far too long. He knew he was growing weaker with every passing day, he could feel it. He had to eat today. He was going to eat today.

  
  
He finally reached the kitchen. It was just as bad as he had remembered. He hated it. A part of him had been hoping that it would be different. That somehow, someone had come in and cleaned it all up for him.

  
  
But no one was there.

  
  
No one had been there for days.

  
  
All their friends had favoured Pete. He was the one who was dumped. He was the one who was fragile, who had problems and couldn't be left alone. He was the one who needed help.

   
  
Patrick found a box of cereal in the pile of dishes and empty cartons on the counter. He shoved a hand into it and pulled out a messy clump of bran flakes.

  
  
He stared at the food in his hand.

  
  
He wasn't going to eat today.

  
  
He dropped the cereal back into the box, ignoring the stray flakes that missed the corners and bounced off the counter onto the ground. He looked up and his eyes caught on a bottle of pills at the corner of the messy table. Patrick pulled himself around the counter and grabbed the bottle, emptying what was left into his hand. He stared at the handful of pills, hesitated for a moment, then clapped his hand to his mouth and forced the capsules down his throat.

 

He hugged the black Metallica shirt and breathed in Pete's scent.

 

"I'm supposed to love you," He murmured again. "I'm supposed to love you. Why... Why don't I love you?"

 

He was going to cry today.

  
  
He was beyond figuring himself out.

 

Patrick leaned heavily on the counter, letting the sobs flood out of his chest. He felt the hot tears running down his face as he collapsed into himself, falling onto the cold tile floor and watching his tears splash on the ground next to his feet. He wrapped his arms around his torso, pressing into Pete's shirt, desperate to feel Pete again. Patrick looked up, heaving as he sobbed, searching for his phone. He spotted it on the table next to the door and crawled over to it, snatching it and turning it on with shaky hands. He could barely see the numbers before him through his tears, but he managed to punch in Pete's number and hold the phone to his face as it began ringing. All he could hear was his harsh cries and the gentle ring of the phone.

 

Then, he picked up.

 

Patrick tried to hold his breath. There was a moment of silence as neither of them spoke, and Patrick struggled to keep back his sobs.

 

Patrick sucked in a shaky gasp.

 

"Patrick?"

 

Patrick dropped the phone. It clattered onto the ground as the sobbing returned, harder and louder than before. His whole body shook with the pain.

 

"Patrick? Are you okay?"

 

Pete's voice sounded urgent and panicky. Patrick tried to speak, to say he was sorry, that he needed him. But he couldn't breathe. His tears were blinding him and he didn't know where he was anymore.

 

"Patrick! I'm coming, okay? Don't do anything. I'm coming!"

 

The sound stopped. Pete had hung up. Patrick deserved that. He felt himself fading away as his chest tightened. He couldn't breathe. His vision was closing in on itself. It was too much.

 

He could just barely hear his own sobs before everything went black.

 

He had previously passed out twice since Pete left. With any luck, he wouldn't wake up this time.

 

Third time was the charm.


End file.
